


The Tale of Hero

by mime_666



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22481251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mime_666/pseuds/mime_666
Summary: A fairy tale hero goes to Hell to confront the Devil.Victorian inspired morality fairy tale.
Collections: Fairy Tales





	The Tale of Hero

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote for a storytelling contest about a decade and a half ago. As such it is intended to be spoken out loud, hence the unusual formatting and parsing at points.
> 
> It is written in the style of a Victorian morality tale.
> 
> All sanctimony and values are a matter of maintaining style, therefore, not the conviction of the author

This is a story, as all good stories should be, about honest country folk. Not princes and kings but a woodsman and his wife, and their daughter and their son.  
And the Devil.

The woodsman and his wife lived deep in the forest with only their love to keep them company. And, as tends to happen when there’s love about, she soon bore him a beautiful daughter. But their love was not ended there. No, indeed. A few years later she gave him a son, fresh and fair as a new morning.

The son’s birth was not to be all smiles and laughter, though. The wife was spent by her efforts and in the woods, with the husband she loved just so, she died. But not before she made a mark on her newborn son. She looked at him as Death crept up on her and gave him a name.  
She named him Hero.  
And so it stood.

The child grew from boy, all skinned knees and yellings, to boy-man, all elbows and blushes and so on until the day of our tale. But he was a quiet lad, prone to seeing the truth in things. Not one to be rushing around saving things and slaying things. So the name became a joke in his here-abouts.

Which shows how much some folk know about real heroes.

Now, the father of this strange child, I shall not say he hated the boy for the death of his wife but I cannot say that he loved him for it either.  
Of course, his daughter was another kettle of buckets. Oh, he loved her in the morning and he loved her in the noontime. But so did all who saw her. She was tall and slender with a heart shaped face. Her hair was like sunshine on a stream, mostly straight, with curls at the ends, which made men smile even when they were trying not to.  
She was beautiful all right, and she knew it. She was like a princess who thinks all the world smells of paint, as that is how the way is prepared for her. The daughter thought every man was kind and attentive and prone to blushing for no good reason.

It was whilst looking at life through this pleasing window that the daughter left the forest for the market. Now this was a week with two Mondays in it, a dangerous time as anyone knows. So don’t be surprised when the Devil himself, coming back from some sinning of other, happens to be walking along the same road as the daughter. Seeing her, all beauty and kindness, Old Nick decides on a new bit of mischief. He runs around the nearest corner to set himself up as an honest trader arranging his wares along the daughter’s path.  
Trip-atrop comes the daughter until she is aside the Devil and his stall. And there she sees, laying out for none but her to see, the finest dress in this world or the next. It is dark as stormclouds, white as lightning, and as fair as both.  
So, in an instant she cannot see, nor imagine neither, that dress on anyone save her. Which seems fitting as it is just her size.

Now the Devil is a salesman of old and just stands there saying nothing until the daughter makes him an offer. No, no, he says, I don’t want no gold and put those embroideries away. You keep them for the market. I shall have something altogether different. From one such as you I will ask only…  
…for…  
…the glint in your eye.

A frippery indeed and not a thing you would miss. Nothing at all when measured against such a fine dress.

Now, ears that are used to men’s compliments and nonsenses expect to hear more of them. So the daughter takes this as a game and agrees. After all, who has heard of anything as daft as selling the glint in your eye.

Out reaches the Devil, quicker than eagles and far faster than second thoughts and takes the glint in her eye. Painless it is, for he has done this before and takes pride in his stealings.

Off trip-trops the daughter, now laden with the dress of blacks and whites, until she comes upon another trader. Or so she thought, though everyone here by the fire and snug as happiness knows better. For truly it was Old Nick back for another wickedness and this time the daughter’s glintless eyes fall upon a set of boots. Black as night they are and delicate as the starlight.

And, oh lordy, what a day for luck they are exactly her size from toe to ankle.  
This trader, who is so like the dressman that they could almost be brothers, is also of queer folk. He too scoffs at what the daughter offers him and shyly requests…  
… the toss of her hair, if you please.

Now, if this is the day for the daughter to win such prizes for such a little foolery she is not about to walk on past.  
Once again the Devil takes what she will not miss.  
At least, not yet.

The day goes on then, as days are prone to do. The daughter goes a-marketing, not noticing how she is less bothered by men today, as her head is full of dresses and boots.  
And, when she at last comes home she shows off her boots to her father, who is proud of her, and her brother, who is strangely quiet.

Our friend Hero is quiet not for jealousy nor for puzzlement but because he sees things more clearly than his kin. He knows that the dress and boots will bring men to the daughter’s door, men by the cartload. But Hero knows that without the glint in her eye and the toss of her hair it will be altogether the wrong sort of men. That type will be chasing long kisses and never-you-mind and care not a whit about what is in her heart or the treasures in her head.

And a trader who asks for nothings, that sniffs of the Devil to him.

Now, he and the daughter had their share of shoutings and tail-pulling as all brothers and sisters will but deep down he loves her. He cannot bear it that his sister would spend her life chased by such men, much less settle with one, so he decides to have a talk with the Lord of Hell himself.

That very night, whilst the daughter sleeps with the dress and boots by her side, he leaves the house intent that the Devil will have no victory over his kin.

Now, Hero is bright lad, he listens well and thinks over what he has heard, so he knows a few things. He knows there are many roads to Hell, most of which we do not recognise until it is too late. But they are slow paths and Hero, he wants to take up his quarrel with the Devil right away. He needs a quick road, see, and so he goes to the graveyard in the town yonder.

Hero is a bright lad, indeed, who knows the way to learn the hidden things is oft-times to push on the doors marked pull. That way you see the rooms that others miss. With wisdom like this he has learned that the quickest way to Old Nick’s kingdom is to walk whistling around a graveyard widdershins. So it is that he trudges and makes tunes to tempt damnation itself and on the last step of his thirteenth circle he sees a door that was not there before.

It is black and cold and sits in the middle of the air with not a hint of a wall around it.  
And it has no handle. Not of any kind.  
Perfect for pushing, thinks Hero.  
So he pulls it instead.

If you were to ask men here they would tell you that Hell is a place of fires and screams and imps with forks. If you were to ask bearded wisemen they would say that there are Hells of ice and clouds and ticklings too. But, if you were to ask the wisemen with the longest beards, or storytellers, for we know a thing or three, they would tell you that each of us has our own personal Hell waiting.

So it was that when Hero opened the door it was not heat and brimstone that greeted him but a placid cave. And running through the cave was a gentle brook, waist-deep to a boy-man of his stocking length.

Was Hero fooled, though, by all this gentleness and calm? No, he was not, for his mother had not borne a fool (Although he had had to be taught to tie his shoelaces twice, now that I think on it).

So Hero stepped into the brook expecting a fight, even if it was not one of flashing swords and grinding teeth. And fight he had, for the lad who so valued all that he had learned began to lose it all in the stream. It washed away his memories, one by one.

But Hero was a woodcutter’s son, accustomed to the quiet of the forest and ordering his thoughts against the loneliness. So this is what he did. He could not stop Hell from taking its due but he could pick and choose what it stole. He ranked his thoughts like soldiers in a row and marched them off the cliff of forgetfulness in the order of his making, the least important first.

Along he went, forgetting the pig’s birthday with this step, where dweekers flew in the Summer with the next. And, just when he got to his first kiss, which he would have sorely missed, he stepped from the cave and back to his true mind.

But not to safety. This was Hell after all, for those of you who have forgotten. He had landed, still wet and dripping, onto Hell’s fields, where devils play and souls lament. Little devils, mind. Not THE Devil, for he sat yonder in his palace of bones.

These devils, lowly they were in the ranks of Hell, but they had claws and teeth and feet that scratched. So when a human, an univited one if you please, came wandering into their land they took unkindly to it. With a shout they rushed at him and sought to tear him down to no good.

All around him they crowded, these dog-devils and pig-devils and others I cannot name, and neither could you if you saw them. But although they dashed and smashed and slashed at Hero they could not land a paw or claw or beak upon him. For devils, they fight with anger and spite and viciousness. It is their nature. It is all they understand.

Hero, though, was a scrapper of a different flavour. He fought, as a good man should, with a purpose. And with goodness in his heart he was as calm as a man counting chickens.

This foxed the devils outright, it did. This was nothing they could guard against. So Hero would land a cudgel on a devil here (for he had taken care to put it in his belt before he left the cottage) and a kick to another there (for he wore his blackest boots in similar preparation) while they made not an inch of progress.

It did not stop them trying, to be sure. In fact, pretty soon half the devils in Hell were queuing around the poor boy all eager to try their turn. And eagerness turned to pushes, pushes to shoves and soon the devils, not made for orderly waiting as a rule, were fighting amongst themselves for who should kill Hero first.

Of course, the more they fought each other the less they fought Hero, until he was able to sneak quietly away from the fracas, leaving the devils to their own stew.

It was not a hop and a step from Hell’s fields to the palace of the Devil himself. Up strode Hero, brave as you please, and knocked on the doors demanding entry as any good Englishman should. And the Devil rushed to the door all flames and fury to see what the noise was.

Hero took a deep breath and counted to seven to show that the Devil’s huffing and puffing did not impress him. Then he put his complaint before the old sinner.

“You have taken my sister’s glint in her eye and toss of her hair unfairly and squarely. I mean to take it back you rascal king,” he said.

“Oh, do you now?” boomed the Devil, who was getting worked up good and hot. “Well, I intend to take your soul for all the sins you have done in your life.”

And he reached inside Hero, as quick as mischief and faster than regret to pluck out all his sins and his soul along with it. He rummaged around and looked and sought but try as he might he could not find a single sin in the lad (except a stolen apple once, but that is not enough to cast you in the flames for). The Devil was out of luck that night. For he had outwitted himself, as often happens if you leave the Devil be. When he had stolen Hero’s memories in the caves his sins went along with them, for who wants to remember all the bad they have done?

So, with no blackness in his heart the Devil had no claim over Hero. This did not please him at all. The Devil fumed and seethed and danced a jig right around Hell in frustration. And when he had completed the circle there stood Hero, still calm as a man counting cows.

“Never mind, Old Devil, Old Nick,” said Hero, “I can see by your jigging that you had your heart set on this soul of mine. I will wager you for it, my soul on my side, my sister’s gifts on yours.”

Now this was a deal that pleases the Devil better, for he is the master of all games and contests. So he calms down a little, until he is only angry enough to crack stone with his eyebrows, and agrees with Hero.

“Make your choice of trials,” says the Devil, “but it must be within my lands.”

“Of course,” agrees Hero, for he had seen the very thing from the moment he entered Hell.

You see, not everything in Hell is the Devil’s work. Even Hell is not all darkness and shadows. Above Hell’s fields hangs a huge lamp shining Heaven’s light on the sinners below. By it the damned can see the fruits of their sins clearly and repent at their leisure.

And it was to the lamp that Hero pointed.

“I wager,” said the boy-man, “that I can stand before the grace of Our Lord for longer than you, black hearted villain.”

The Devil looked at Hero, and looked at the lamp, and back once more at Hero. And the Devil knew in his ancient soul that he had been bested. Not that that would make him give up, mind. Pride is a sin too and when it comes to sins the Devil owns the lot.

With a growl and a snarl the Devil agreed to the task and with a click of his fingers took the two to the lamp.

Beneath the miracle they stood, boy-man on one side, darkest of the dark on the other. And although the lamp was vast Hero could see that it was a delicate thing. Wrought only of baby’s dreams and angel’s hopes it held within it the glory of Heaven.

Now Hero was a good lad, I would not tell you different, but none of us, sinner or saint, can stand a toes-width from Grace without flinching. The flesh is not meant for Heaven, nor woodsman’s clothes either. Soon Hero began to feel both take to smouldering.

Smouldering was not the end of it neither. Smoke turned to flicker and flicker to flame until Hero and Devil both stood up to their ears in fire.

Hero still had a comfort of sorts, though. While he burned he knew that the Devil was not up to any other mischeifs. And although his flesh burned he knew that too much goodness would not wound him where it really mattered - in his soul.

The Devil, of course, lacked faith, for that too was a sin he had collected. He was certain that the lamp could kill him, perhaps even before the boy. But he knew he would spite the boy anyways. For while they stood there his sister would be meeting rascals and marrying scoundrels and having their miserable children. So, even after being burnt to a coal the Devil would have his victory.

If all it took was a-burning for half an eternity that is what the Devil would do.

So they both stood there, scalded by Grace, each knowing that their pain would not defeat them.

And they were both right. I was not pain that swung the day. It was memory.

Within the lamp was the light of God. Within that light was a glimpse of Heaven and while he burned the Devil had to look upon all that had once been his when he was an angel, not a devil. And even under the baking heat a tear grew in his eye as he mourned what he had lost. As the tear rolled down his black nose he thought on what he now had. And just before the tear dropped from his nose-end the Devil could stand it no more. He let out a great yell and fled from God’s light back to his own darkness, as he had once before.

Hero saw that he had won but still he pitied the Devil. When he went to the lost soul and demanded his wager it was with soft tones.

“Give me my dues,” he said to the Devil, all a-blubbering and a-weeping, “and a hundred souls that you have no further use for.”

The Devil, who was too full of sorrow to argue, gave Hero his sister’s glint in her eye, toss of her hair and TWO hundred souls, as he had misheard Hero through his own yowlings.

So it was that Hero left Hell with his sister’s property and came back to the graveyard less than a minute after he left. And, as the door closed and two hundred souls rose to heaven, he said one more thing to the Devil.

“Do not think to trouble me again,” he shouted down the hole, loud enough for all Hell to hear, “for if you do I may come back and make a pair of breeches from you hairy skin.”

His only reply was the weeping of the King of Hell and the slamming of the door but that was enough.

So Hero returned home and left his sister the glint of her eye and toss of her hair wrapped in a handkerchief on the kitchen table. And with those and the clothes Old Nick gave her she found a good husband in less that a fortnight.

And Hero?

Well, he never told anyone of his trip to Hell for fear of upsetting their breakfasts. And people still made fun of his name.

All except one. One who did not fancy his skin worn as breeches.


End file.
